Midnight
by IWantYouInMyLife
Summary: There were no words for how much he loved — fucking loved — James. He had to know; there was no way his eyes hid the pain, the hollowness, growing inside as the love of his life began to say his goodbyes while he looked so damn healthy. He seemed fine. James looked healthy. How dare he look so good while saying his goodbyes?
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: I've never been prouder of something I've written than I am of this fic. I've been a terrible author, who abandoned all her other fics to focus solely on this. For weeks and weeks, wherever I went, this fic went with me. I wrote on my cell phone, I wrote on my computer, I wrote in pages and pages of my notebook... it's certainly been a journey to get to this. It was a rollercoaster of emotions for me, too. I laughed and cried writing the words, feeling connected to this whole story on a very personal level, and I hope that, in any way possible, you all reading it will also** **be able** **to feel something.**

* * *

As the plane landed on the Avenger's complex, Tony couldn't help but tense in response to the inevitable confront waiting for him inside those doors. It wasn't as if he had been relaxed and calm before, no, not even close; it was just another layer of frustration and anger settling into the already thick pile of negative emotions running across his body since FRIDAY's alarm went off two hours ago.

If it had been anything less than this... anything less than absolutely vital, Tony would've never flown to see him.

Truth be told, not many things were important or urgent enough to get both Tony and St-Rogers in the same room nowadays. Actually, nearly nothing could come to mind that would reason such a meeting. They were no longer comrades, teammates, colleagues, friends. Seeing each other was pointless, hurtful, and a sure way to ensure a long, angry fight.

This was beyond them, though. This was something — someone — they had in common. This was more than enough to get 'em both together. This was beyond all else.

This was James.

When he reached the living room, the man in question was already there. No doubts his message had already been received, then.

"How long?" Rogers asked, not sparing him a look from his place on the couch. His voice was even, dead.

"Two hours." Tony's answer was equally flat. There was no need for any of them to pretend to be happy about this sudden reunion. It had been far too long since they had exchanged civil words with one another — no need to start now.

"He was supposed to be safe with you," Rogers said, skipping any form of pleasantry and going straight for the jugular, as Tony knew he would. It didn't stop the words from hurting, though. He was right; James was supposed to be safe with him.

"He left on his own," Tony said, more informative than defensive. He had no business defending himself to Captain America anymore — it didn't matter what he thought of him. "I don't know how they got in touch with him, but James left the tower on his own to meet them. Whatever they said has to be big enough to get him concerned."

"Can't you find out?" he asked, finally getting up from the couch and turning to face Tony. "Surely your tower is monitored in all places, at all hours. How come you don't know?"

The problem with St-Rogers, was that he always presumed too much about Tony and about whatever he did — and never for the better, no. His conclusions were always based on his perceived notion that Tony was an asshole who got off on controlling everyone and everything and couldn't care less about who got hurt in the process.

"James has been living with me for two years. You don't think he knows how to keep things hidden from me if he wishes to?"

"No, I don't."

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. He would not begin a fight with Rogers on the Avengers complex, where he would be surrounded in no time at all by others.

"He could've come to me," the man continued, obvious to Tony's inner struggle, with that look of determination he wore so goddamn well. Clearly, he was trying hard to see how fast he could get Tony to snap. "Even if he didn't think he could go to you with whatever this was, he could still have come to me. He has to know I would've done everything in my power to help."

"Maybe he just doesn't think you're as helpful as you seem to think you are," Tony snapped, not surprised that he'd lost the battle to stay calm. Steve always had the uncanny ability to push his buttons with a precision many would kill to have. It was beyond infuriating, and with all the other emotions flowing through his body at the moment, the fragile hold he had over his feelings where it came to this buckled over with astonishing easiness.

The frown intensified on Steve — and why was he always Steve in his mind whenever Tony got angry enough?

"I wanted-," he began, but Tony had had enough. James was missing. James was with Hydra and Steve wanted to discuss something ridiculous and Tony had had enough.

"The problem, Steve, was that you focused too much on what you wanted and somewhere along the way you forgot to ask him what he wanted," he said, feeling the anger — all that unresolved anger — burning hot in his veins as he listened to the bullshit Steve insisted in spewing whenever he opened that damn mouth of his.

"What do you know about Bucky?" He asked, with all the self-righteousness he could muster.

"What do you know about the Winter Soldier?" Tony snapped back, raising an eyebrow.

''He's my best friend," Steve said, as if it explained it all.

"Who, Steve? Who's your best friend?" Tony spat, having crossed the line of reason a few words ago. "Some days, after he came here to see you, he would cry for hours, and I would hold him, kind of wanting to kill you for doing that to him, even without knowing. You were telling him all these things about himself, and yet he saw none of that when he looked into the mirror. You were telling him that he was this charismatic, carefree, childhood friends of yours, and yet that was not who he saw when he looked into a mirror, not how he felt about himself. Half the time he was this soldier, this is assassin, this machine, who could only follow orders and had too ease of a time killing others, and the other half of the time he was just James, someone who was traumatized, lost, and who knew nothing about his own past but had to live up to it constantly. That's some heavy shit, Steve."

"I never wanted that. I loved him no matter who he was," Steve stated strongly. He talked about love with an easiness that spoke of familiarity and Tony felt the usual bitterness poking at his insides as he was confronted with another person who had a childhood that didn't suppress his emotional wellbeing. "I love him no matter what becomes of him. 'Till the end of the line."

"He just wanted someone to tell him that who he was now was not wrong," Tony explained, finally able to say the words to Steve. "And I tried. I tried so damn hard, but I never knew him before, so my words never meant nearly as much as I wished they did." He confessed. "Some days, he would look at me, and I could see that he was about to ask if what he was doing was something normal to him. If his favorite ice cream flavor was still the one that it used to be... but I could not be that person to him. How could I, when I knew nothing of his past."

"I was here — all this time. He could've just asked me," He said, frustrated. "Fuck, it's strawberry; it's always been strawberry."

Shit.

"He says it's chocolate chip."

"I just- can't." Steve forced the words out, wincing. "How long has it been?"

"Three hours."

Three hours since James left the tower on his own volition, with his own two legs. Why would he go to Hydra? It made no sense, no matter in which way Tony tried to analyze it.

"Do you love him?" Steve asked, breaking the silence and interrupting Tony's line of thought.

God, Steve was such an asshole. How dare he ask that when he had literally left Tony to die in Siberia? He had no business prying into his personal life like that, as if he was entitled to anything.

"Shut up, what are you even doing? Is this supposed to become some kind of competition to see who has more of a right to him?"

"You have no idea how this feels for me," he said, shaking his head. "I woke up alone — literally alone. Besides Peggy, who doesn't remember anything half the time, I have no one — had no one until I found Buck. Do you have any idea how it feels to wake up alone in a time that is not your own? I have no one — had no one — who knew about my childhood, who knew me before the serum, who could share pieces of my life before I became a soldier."

"Suddenly, I'm awake in a year that is not mine," he carried on. "People are different, the city's different, everything around me feels like a foreign world — like I've been transported to a whole nother galaxy where people tell me that it's okay, that I should be grateful I'm alive, and that it's an honor for me to serve still. I had no idea how to do anything, I felt like a child all over again but somehow with the expectations of everyone around me, the spotlight. Bucky is-"

"James deserves to be more than a link to your past," Tony snapped.

"Don't you think I know that?" Steve growled back, pacing like a caged animal around the room as he spoke. "Stop acting like he isn't my best friend. Stop acting like I'm not with him until the end of the line. Stop acting like I'm not the one who has stuck with him through all the hardest moments of his life."

Tony tried not to look around, not to notice the changes made to the space he had helped envision in a time where things had been way more simpler. It wouldn't do to miss any of it. He had given up on all of that when he decided to retire from the superhero business and work solely from Stark Tower on SI related things.

"Guess what, Steve?" Tony asked. "This is the hardest moment of his life, right now. He has been used, in the worst fucking way possible, for the past seventy years. While you slept comfortably on that ice, he was awake, killing people — murdering dozens, hundreds. And, yeah, maybe most of the time he doesn't remember all of it, and I pray he never does remember all of it, but he has nightmares, and he has panic attacks, and he has amnesia periods, when, for some minutes, he can remember some of the stuff he did, and it's brutal. One day I woke up, and he was trying to rip his metal arm off, said it was never going to get clean, that it would always be dirty."

"I know. I know, Tony." Steve stopped in front of him. "That day he came here and actually asked me to do it, to rip the arm off. And I almost did it, too. There he stood, begging me to help him get it off, asking me for help when he knows all I want is to be able to help him in any possible way that I can. To refuse... to say no was one of the hardest things I've done."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because I know him, no matter what you may think and no matter how Buck is feeling right now. I know who he is. He would feel helpless without that arm — like he needed saving — which would crush his spirit. So I refused, even as he cried for help," Steve said, his face morphed into an expression of fond resignation that was so darn familiar Tony felt his chest constricting with an emotion he felt hesitant to name. How many times had he seen that same exact expression in Rhodey's face as he went for one of Tony's crazy ideas even when they both knew it would most likely explode into their faces?

"I'm concerned about the new arm," Tony admitted, suddenly feeling more tired than he ought to be, given the circumstances, so he manned up and crossed the distance between him and the man he used to call a friend to drop his weight onto the couch.

Of course, Steve being Steve couldn't stop himself from being a complete asshole any possible chance he got. "What's the problem with it? You messed it up?"

Tony stared at Steve, his eyebrow raised.

"Do you even know who you're talking to? No, I didn't fucking mess it up. He's been with it for months — you know that. It's amazing, the most awesome thing I've ever done in my entire life. James can do a whole lot of damage with that arm, that's what I'm saying. Every function he had with the old one, he has it better with mine."

Steve took his time to digest the words, and when he spoke, the frown was evident in his words."How does it work? Buck doesn't talk a lot about it."

Fortunately, speaking about James' arm was one of Tony's favorite pastimes. The engineering that went to design that incredible — fucking amazing — piece of tech was so complex and fantastic that he could hardly speak about it without feeling his muscle relax ever so slightly, even if it was Steve asking about it.

"Well, it was an impressive piece of engineering, I have to admit," he began, leaning back on the couch to get comfortable. "The Russians did a fucking fine job of creating a prosthetic which served more as a weapon than a normal body part. James had all the sensations and movements necessary to perform his assignments, but none of the subtle sensitivity one expects from a useful limb, though."

"So, you just took the old one off and replaced it? How did it-"

"Kind of," Tony said. "It's absurd, really. No normal human would have the bone and muscle structure to support this type of bionic arm, but Hydra didn't only give him the super-serum, they also connected and braced the support structure all the way from his shoulder to his spine. Only an illegal organization would find doctors to perform this kind of surgery. So, yeah, he decided to keep it as it is. I've only changed the prosthetic, from the shoulder down."

"Do you think Hydra-" The question was clear, as was the fear laced in those words.

"I don't think they'll have a problem with making use of my tech, no. They'll probably try to copy it, but that's the least of my concerns. The moment they realize what he's capable of..." Tony trailed off, swallowing just to confirm that his throat had not closed and that, yes, the air was still flowing in and out of his body, the terror swimming around his head, notwithstanding. "They'll wipe him off."

The look of angst Steve had on his face was a sure mirror of the one Tony had on his. It was torture. Torture to know that there was a chance that James no longer knew who Tony was, no longer remember who he was.

"The team-" Steve tried, crossing his arms over his chest like he was preparing to bite that bone until it cracked.

Unfortunately for him, Tony had no intention of going anywhere near the whole Avengers drama. Surely Steve knew him enough to understand how big it was that Tony was even stepping inside the complex once again without wreaking all that was in front of him. "I don't care. No, don't start; I don't care. The Avengers aren't my problem anymore — it's been too long now."

"It has been too long. Two years is-"

"Not even enough to make some memories foggy in my mind," he informed.

"You always act like you are the only one who lost something, who were wronged. You were the one who created most of this mess and still, you're the one getting Bucky." He stopped there, allowing the name to hang in the air between them as they both thought of him. "Would you rather I'd abandoned him?"

Tony had a million responses he could give to such a question. In fact, he had spent many nights awake thinking about Siberia and wondering what he could've done differently, what Steve could've done differently, wishing there were easier answers to their tangled web of complications. However, when faced with the man who he had once considered to be a friend, Tony could do little else but to go with the truth.

"I rather you hadn't abandoned me."

The way Steve held to his breath, as though he had never imagined such an answer to be possible, was more disturbing than Tony allowed himself to analyze at the moment. James was missing. James was with Hydra. There was no time to consider his thing with Rogers. "That's was not-"

"It was, though, it was exactly how it happened. Yeah, maybe I did some stupid shit, and maybe I was afraid of what it could happen to us, but you almost killed me, Steve. You didn't even tell me what you were doing, didn't even give me the chance to explain any of what happened, you just left. Just like that."

"Just like that? I was a fugitive, hiding away in other people's houses while trying to find my best friend before he committed more crimes for which I knew he would have to answer to, even though it had never been him. You wanted us to allow the government-"

"I wanted us to have legitimacy, validation, control, rules," he corrected, pinching the bridge of his nose. He would not punch Steve. He would not.

"It wouldn't have been that; it would've been persecution. Mutants would never have the right to their privacy and heroes would never have the liberty of deciding how to act. The people who are putting their lives on the line should be the ones making the hardest calls."

"Hard to believe the guy who tried five times to enlist before succeeding is saying that to me," Tony challenged, for a minute there hoping Steve would do something about the anger sizzling between them. He had always thought that the first time he saw Steve after Siberia would be with James by his side, acting as a buffer as they inevitably argued over all the million unresolved issues hanging above their heads. To be there without him by his side only served to accentuate the emptiness gnawing at his insides.

"It's been seventy years. If you have such an easy time believing Bucky's changed, why do you always act like I'm still the soldier of your childhood?" Ste-Rogers — God, why was it so confusing to stick to the man's surname with him so goddamn close?

"Perhaps because it invaded so much of my life?" He asked, a rhetorical question if there was ever one.

Steve sounded genuinely confused when he asked, "What?"

"It doesn't matter." It shouldn't matter. Howard had been dead for so long, even Tony knew his daddy issues were supposed to be somewhat less hurtful by then. "What about the rest, then? I didn't even know who James was back then, why didn't you tell me?"

"You wouldn't have understood."

"Fuck you. Use some other excuse, that one is shit."

"You proved my point when you tried to kill him. What did you think I should've done, let you?"

"He killed my parent," Tony informed, raising his hand to stop the words he saw coming out of the other's mouth. "No, I don't wanna hear. Yes, it was the soldier, yes, we've spoken about it, but it doesn't change the facts, nor does it excuse the fact that you hid it from me," Tony interrupted, the words bitter in his tongue.

"Does knowing really changes anything for you, other than hurting?" Steve asked, sounding even more confused than before. God, why did he have to look so truly lost when all Tony wanted to do was punch his fucking mug?

"It wasn't your call to make," Tony said, in lieu of an answer.

"There was no one else to make it but me."

* * *

"You're not going to suit up?" Tony asked, surprised by the casual clothes clinging to the soldier's body.

"I'm not going as Captain; I'm going as Steve."

"Why?"

"Cause this is personal," he admitted, wrapping his hands faster than Tony had ever seen him do before. "They took my best friend. Again. I don't want my response to be linked to the Captain's image."

Tony struggled to hide his shock. Was Steve really admitting that there were more to him than a two-good-shoe, uptight soldier? "You do realize that your response as a civilian could be considered a crime? Will most likely be considered a crime, actually."

"Arrest me, then," he shrugged.

"Fifty-two confirmed individuals inside the building, boss," FRIDAY informed.

"That's a lot of heavily-armed guys to fight," Tony pointed out, thinking of how to best put out what he wanted to say. "I hope you're not planning to go for the too-good-to-murder style. If you're not going for the kill, at least don't stand in my way."

"It won't be a problem," St-Rogers, Rogers informed, ignoring the rest. "You have guns in here?"

"If I have guns? Rogers, you know me better than that," he responded, almost offended that the other man would question his ability to keep his own private plane stocked. "What's your thing?" he asked, going for the panel on his right and ordering FRIDAY to open it up.

"My thing?" Steve wondered, stepping closer to him, almost touching Tony's back with his chest. The presence was so familiar that Tony almost allowed himself to lean back and enjoy the support. Just before he did, however, the reality slid back into place, and he remembered where and with who he was. Steve was not his super-soldier — he wasn't even his friend anymore. There was no comfort to be given there.

As the panel disappeared to reveal a line of guns neatly arranged by size, he responded,"Your thing," mentioning to the several choices to be made there. He had a good hunch on what the other would choose, but, nevertheless, he made no further move to indicate anything. It had been two years, who knew what kind of taste Steve had for guns those days. It would be ridiculous to expect that the man was still the same. Ridiculous.

And still, when he went straight for the close-range guns, skipping all the rifles James would have chosen without a second glance, Tony couldn't help the tiniest bit of happiness that ran hot through his body as he was proven right. And, yeah, it was insane to be happy about that, but Tony could hardly control his own goddamn feelings.

* * *

The room was a mess.

Tony and Steve had barely worked up a sweat as they made their way up to where the trace from James' tracking device came from, stopping only to efficiently put down the few lingering agents who crossed their paths. In a way, it was disconcerting. So, yeah, maybe Hydra was ruled by assholes who more often than not were put down because their illusion of grandeur was bigger than any actual planning ability they had… Still, it shouldn't be that easy.

Tony had yet to activate his suit, wearing only the gauntlets in his hands and his own version of a Kevlar under his clothes. He would refrain from going full Iron Man unless the situation truly got out of control — knowing the temptation would be huge and the dreams, dreams of working once again as an Avenger, would return full force. He had held on for two years, he could hold on for another day, even if James' face flashed every few seconds in his mind.

Steve was walking ahead of him, two pistols secured in his grasp as he marched forward. Tony tried to ignore that as well. Just as he ignored the desire to wear his full-on suit and fly straight to James, wrecking any living person in that shitty place, he would ignore the picture Steve made as he opened the way, long strides and coiled posture, shooting without hesitation all those few who had been unfortunate enough to try and stop them. With a beard, sweats, wrappings around his hand, guns comfortable in his hold, and an almost bloodthirsty expression on his face, Tony could hardly see Captain America in him.

When they did reach were James was, the room was a mess. Not teenager-who-did-not-tidy-up-his-space messy or even Tony's-workshop-after-seventy-two-hours-of-nonstop-work messy, it was horror-movie messy, bodies lying on all surfaces in all sorts of positions humans were never supposed to be in, severed limbs bleeding around, blood splattered on the walls and the ceiling. In the back, hand around the throat of a man in doctor's coat, was James.

Tony breathed fully for the first time in six hours, not even pretending to be sorry for the massacre around him. If James had killed all the personnel in the building, it could only mean he hadn't been wiped, and for that mercy, Tony would slather all those people himself, with his bare hands. Apparently, Steve shared his relief, because he lowered his guns for the first time since they entered the building, eyes glued to the scene playing out in front of them.

There was no way James hadn't noticed them arriving, just the same, his hold tightened against the man's airway, lifting his body off the ground and growling the questions, "Was this the last one?"

"I—I—don't, I can't," the guy croaked, his face going white as the air supply became scarce.

"Answer me!" James demanded. Tony didn't have to see his face to imagine the furious expression he undoubtedly had.

"Yes! Yes! It was the last one! Please—I-" The begging abruptly faded away into a splutter as blood began to leak from his mouth.

The moment the body hit the ground Steve was on the move. If the possibility of James hurting him crossed his mind, he sure didn't show, seeing as he ran forward, shoving the guns back into their holsters, calling out for Bucky.

Tony stayed where he was. James was alive, James hadn't been wiped, James had just killed more than forty Hydra agents and doctors, James had yet to turn their way… His mind spun too fast, and the world tilted as he tried to find the steady ground beneath his feet. His thoughts were running, too fast, five, six, ten steps ahead. Why had James gone there? Why now? How did he know of that place? Why was he shaking?

Wait. Why was James shaking?

Steve was launching himself at James, no caution whatsoever, mouth going a mile per second as he questioned all the things Tony, too, wished to know. Was he injured? Was he okay? What happened? But James was not answering, not moving beyond the tremors running up and down his entire body.

"Bucky," Steve said, finally realizing James' lack of response and going for a more soft voice. "Do you need something?"

For a long stretch of time, he said nothing. The silence became heavy and Tony's heart, which had felt less like exploding in his chest after finding out the man he loved was alive, once again began to beat furiously against his ribcage. He should say something, anything, really. Surely, his famous loose mouth had to be of use in that sort of situation. If only he could unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

When the order came, it wasn't one Tony was prepared to follow. "Leave," James commanded, still facing the wall.

At that, something in Tony snapped, and his mouth opened on its own. "Nice joke," he said, stepping closer as he did so.

The sound of his voice only served to make the tremors shake James' body harder and harder. Suddenly, Tony was running, Steve was grabbing his best friend's metal arm, and said best friend was snapping, pushing Steve away as though he weighed no more than an inconvenient child.

"James!" Tony called, surprised. He came to a stop before he touched him, shocked into stillness. Something had to have happened before their arrival, but what, what, what?

"Just—leave," James asked, pleaded, as Steve got up.

"And abandon you here?" Steve questioned.

"Yes."

"Yeah, not happening," Tony said, jumping over the bodies on the floor to stand next to James, trying to see his face through the strands of long hair in the way. "Got any reasonable request to make?"

"I said, leave!" He screamed, turning towards Tony, his bionic arm raised, as though he was about to strike him. Steve was yelling at the super-soldier, but the engineer remained where he was, willing to see 'til where that would go.

Too far, it seemed, cuz next thing Tony is plastered against the same wall the now dead man in the floor had been, head knocking back and body held up there by the open hand in his chest. Yet it all seemed irrelevant when faced with the realization that, from that position, James couldn't hide. His furious, distorted, tormented, beautiful — God, so beautiful — face was mere inches from Tony's.

"Bucky, let him down," Steve tried to reason, once again touching the metal arm.

This time, however, he didn't get a reaction out of James, who was too busy holding Tony and shaking. He was still shaking, and his breath was labored. His eyes, though, were still clear.

Those gray eyes. Tony loved those eyes. He'd seen them narrowed in distrust as he regarded someone new, blank with unawareness as the occasional lapse of memory stroke hard, focused with killer intent when an enemy was perceived, shining brightly as he saw something amazing, focused sharply when a mission was presented, dark and hot with passion when Tony came undone under his careful ministrations... Tony knew them all. Suddenly, the look he was seeing on James's face was his favorite one of them all. James looked at him, and it was open and trustful and loving and genuine in a way that he looked at no other person.

Tony would admit to being selfish. Selfish of his things, of his work, of his bots, of his friends. When you were a billionaire, who could buy most of what you wanted and who received the rest of it for free, one learns to treasure that which cannot be valued. But, no, Tony had always been selfish with what he loved. Undoubtedly, his therapist could write a new thesis based on his conclusions about Tony's motives. What mattered was that James was looking at him in a way that took his breath away, while surrounded by the corpses of the people he killed, as Steve tried to grab his attention to make sure he was alright, and all Tony could think about was how much he wished those eyes would forever remain glued to his. Exactly as they were.

"Hey there, handsome," Tony said, feeling a smile gracing his face despite his position. James could hold him as much as he wanted. Anything. As long as he was safe — anything.

"You are not supposed to be here," James said, hardening his expression once again.

"You know me better than that."

"Bucky-"

"How did you- Of course. You put a tracking device in my arm," James stated, not looking for a confirmation. He knew.

"Of course." Tony didn't pretend otherwise.

"Of course," he repeated, putting more pressure in his hold and instantly sliding his gaze to the arc-reactor poking against the fabric there.

Bucky knew more about the device in his chest than any other person alive who was not Tony. He had seen the math, watched as Tony built it, helped him with the surgery. The arc-reactor was now made from the same Vibranium-Titanium alloy he had used to create the new cybernetic prosthetic attached to the assassin's body. The delicate red light it emitted was precisely the same hue as the one spiraling down the bionic arm.

They were bounded. More significantly than any kind of commitment they could've made with words and gestures; the procedures they went through assured their bodies would forever be connected with something that was far more important than a trinket, an ornament. It was the very substance keeping them together, keeping them functional, keeping them alive.

"Fuck," James cursed, flinching away, only to stumble into Steve, who held his chest to avoid them both going down. "You're not supposed to be here."

"Buck, come on, what's going on here?" Steve asked, doing his brow thing where he looked like a lost puppy. Tony wouldn't say it was an inefficient tactic.

When James hesitated, turning his face to look at him, as if he expected Tony to interfere and allow him the chance to avoid the question, he was quick to dispel his lover of such notion. "Don't look at me — what he said."

Only James was no longer looking at him. He was swallowing fast, nervously searching for something around the room for a few seconds before he bent forward and threw up all over the dead bodies surrounding them.

Tony's mind was going into overload. James didn't throw up — he couldn't. Whatever happened before they arrived had to be affecting the serum, but in what way?

"Shit," Steve cursed, moving to hold the hair from out of James' face.

Tony's eyes slid from the super-soldier vomiting in a concerning shade of burgundy to the other super-soldier, whose eyes locked with his, both sets transmitting the same message to each other.

 _This is bad_.

* * *

No.

That couldn't be right. No way.

"There was no other way, Tony. The poison was slow working, yeah, and I did what I could to delay it as much as possible, to get as much time with you as I could, but my time is running out. "

Tony hadn't realized how much he considered death an impossibility until he was faced with it so head on, he had little choice but to freeze and deny it. James couldn't die. Hadn't Tony lost enough in his life already? Was it too much to ask for one person to be spared?

"But FRIDAY- the scans-"

"I asked her to lie," James admitted, with a guilty face. "I explained what was happening and asked her to keep it a secret. She did always like me."

No, his AI would never lie to him about James. There was no way.

"How could-"

"I wanted us to have a normal time together. I just wanted one time in my life where there wasn't the threat of death hanging over everybody's head. Was that too much to ask?"

His throat felt too closed to speak, too closed to swallow, and Tony could only shake his head as the burning sensation behind his eyes grew stronger, and the need to punch something or fold in and cry began to overwhelm his senses.

"I just wanted to give you that," he whispered, pushing the words out.

"You did. God, Tony, you gave me a purpose to leave my bed every single day."

"I could have researched something. I created a new element, I'm a genius, I could've done something. Why did you do this?"

"I didn't give up, baby, I didn't. There was nothing to be done about it."

"Why go to Hydra, then?"

"I didn't want you to see me as another project for you to fix; couldn't bear to spend the rest of my limited time strapped to medical tables as you drove yourself mad trying to come up with an impossible solution," James confessed, raising his metal hand to caress Tony's face, scratching his goatee as he'd done a thousand times before. The familiar gesture was enough to make Tony sag with need and lean into the touch. "I said my goodbyes in my head, and that's how I wanted you to remember me. Touching you, holding you... That's all I wanted. Figured I could take some fuckers down with me before my time was up."

It didn't surprise Tony that he would want to go down fighting against Hydra. If anything, it made his heart ache with fondness for the man in front of him, who would rather die in silence than to bother those few who knew and loved him. In a way, it was bittersweet; he hated James for taking the choice of his hands, making the decision for the both of them and leaving Tony to discover only when he had absolutely no way of fixing it, and yet, he couldn't help but admire the tenacity of him, to live with that knowledge for months on end and deal with it by himself when he knew he had loved ones wanting nothing but to help.

"You had to know I would come after you," he said. "Steve... God, Steve. You have to tell him, James. He'll... Fuck, he'll never survive this."

The agony finally hit James's face as his best friend's name came into play. His gorgeous gray eyes narrowed as he winced in pain, probably knowing that Tony was indeed right. Steve would not survive losing Bucky again, not after getting to have him for that long.

"I'm past my due, no?"

No, he wasn't. James had barely had the time to figure out he was alive — that he was a free man, with choices and possibilities.

"Shut up, I can't- you cannot be-"

"Tony," he called, and it was so sweet, knowing, and open that it tore at his chest just a bit more. "Meeting you was the best thing that could've happened to me, Tony, I hope you know that. I don't regret a single fucking moment. Not one."

Tony had faced torture in a desert cave in Afghanistan, constantly juggling the dark weight of realizing exactly what his weapons were used for and the deep fear of never seeing the outside world again. Yet, somehow, it was that man, saying those words that wrecked his control enough to his eyes to fill to the brim with tears.

"I never thought I could get this," James carried on, mentioning them both. "I had accepted the thought of living a half-life with an arm built by Hydra. Goddamn Hydra, baby." And he had to be emotional because he never called Tony baby unless it was in distress and his eyes were watering. "You gave me everything."

How could Tony tell him that it was the other way around? How could he explain that he was the one who had been leading a shitty life while pretending to be happy? There were no words for how much he loved — fucking _loved_ — James. He had to know; there was no way his eyes hid the pain, the hollowness, growing inside as the love of his life began to say his goodbyes while he looked so damn healthy. He seemed fine. James looked healthy, how dare he look so good while saying his goodbyes?

"I-"

"Hey, I know. Of course I know, Tony."

All his life Tony had shied away from any conversation regarding feelings. It was how he had been taught at home — presents and sex were the ways to show affection he understood. However, facing James laying there, in front of him, baring his soul to Tony without the slightest hesitation, it felt impossible to hold the words in anymore — words he had never said out loud but hoped James already knew nevertheless.

"There will never be another for me," he began, knowing deep within that he spoke nothing but the truth. "You are it. Forgive me for wasting so long pretending otherwise, James. I'm just so fucked up."

"Tony, baby," James breathed out in surprise, probably not ready to believe that Tony was spilling so much, which, in turn, only fulled him to speak more. James deserved to hear all that and more.

"I love you," Tony began with that, his mouth forming weirdly around the words he hadn't spoken since he was a child. "I love you, James. I love you so much that at times I wished I could've locked you up just to keep you here, where I thought you'd be safe. I love you. I hope you knew that already. That all this, my job, my money, my genius, my projects… I would throw it all away without a single pause just to keep you here, with me."

"Corse I knew. Corse I knew, Tony," he cried out, fisting handfuls of Tony's shirt in desperation before dragging him closer and kissing him, mouth open and hot. It was desire, it was love, it was all that wrapped in the way he clutched a little too tight at Tony's back or the way he whimpered in lost when Tony shifted closer to his bed, laying half atop of him.

* * *

Tony went through the lab-results one more time, scrolling down the text in his Stark Pad faster and faster, convincing himself that that would be the time some information he had missed before would pop and give him even the barest hint of how to solve this. His eyes burned and his hands were shaking. The coffee he had grabbed — his fifth in less than an hour — had gone cold as he frantically searched for the missing piece. It had to be there.

He refused to accept that he had no way of fixing this. He was Tony Stark — genius, prodigy, head of a multi-billion dollars company — there was nothing he couldn't do, nothing he couldn't fix, given enough time.

Only that was the point there, the reason why his hands were shaking almost uncontrollably. Because James didn't have the time he needed. They didn't have the time necessary. Perhaps there was an answer, but Tony knew, deep under his thick layer of desperation and frantic need, that he would never reach it while James was still breathing.

He swallowed, trying to convince himself that no, his throat was not closing, and no, he wasn't dying. Not yet. The panic was beginning to settle, though, and soon enough Tony couldn't even hold the Stark Pad in his hand, couldn't even hold his own body up. He slid down the wall, not managing to keep his breath steady, scratching his arms in a weak attempt at grounding himself.

James would die.

James would die. Soon.

James was going to die before him.

James was not going to be there. Not anymore.

James would _die_.

It was a cycle of depressing thoughts that clung to his mind no matter what else he tried to think about as his nails scratched even deeper into his skin. Tony had never considered the possibility of out-living James — a goddamn super-soldier. He was supposed to be the fucked-up one; the one who was older and more damaged, who would possibly die in a fight — or, if he was really really lucky, during sex. It wasn't supposed to be James. Never him.

"Sir, you're experiencing the effects of a panic attack," FRIDAY's voice rang across his workshop. "Would you like me to call someone?"

Someone? Who would that be, when James was the only one who could calm him down when everything else seemed unmanageable and oppressive? There was no one else Tony wanted, and he couldn't have the one he wished for.

His arms began to bleed. Tony looked down, carrying on scratching even as it bled, mesmerized by the redness coming out of him, hoping it would awaken something in him other than fear and desperation.

"…Sir?"

"Shut it down, Fri," Tony whispered, knowing she would hear it. "Initiate lockdown protocol."

"Is Mister Barnes clearance suspended?"

"No," he denied. "No. Never."

Even if never was only going to last two more days.

* * *

"You have to do something!" Steve was screaming, flailing his arms around as he moved around his lab.

"You don't think I would if I had the faintness idea of how?" Tony screamed back, more than happy to have an outlet to his anger, even if it was way less satisfying than he could've hoped it to be. It wasn't Steve who he was angry with, no matter how much he tried to convince himself.

"You created the arc-reactor, you helped Rhodes, you made his arm for fuck's sake! There has to be something!" Steve yelled, hitting his table with such force it cracked under the pressure, and half of it slid down to the floor.

"I'm not a wizard, you piece of shit! I don't just take these things from my sleeve whenever it's convenient."

"I don't care where you take 'em from. Do whatever it takes to fix him!"

"I would! Shut the fuck up, Steve! I'd do whatever the hell I could if I thought even for a minute that it would help James."

"Then why don't we have a plan?" he screamed, desperation shining in his blue eyes as he looked at Tony for answers, for leadership. No longer the Captain, Steve looked like a lost boy looking at his mom for directions. It was so painful to see that Tony strained not to turn away from the look — it was beyond unfair for him to look at Tony like that at that moment when Tony had spent so many times in the past wishing for it in different circumstances.

"Cause I don't have one," he admitted, finally lowering his eyes in defeat. It was only the truth; Tony didn't have any plan.

"For someone who claims to be in love with him you sure give up fast," Steve spat, stepping over the broken piece of counter to lean over and search for his eyes while he did it.

Tony wanted to say he remained in his place, staring down the Captain with equal amounts of hate, but the truth was that he flinched. Flinched like a stab in the back from someone you would've never expected it to come from. It was stupid. They were both angry and sad and desperate and panicking and in denial, and Steve had a history for being the biggest piece of shit he could be whenever James was concerned, and still, Tony flinched.

His eyes closed as he tried to even his breathing and not fall into another panic attack so soon after his last one, but recognizing a lost battle when he fought one. He grabbed the remaining piece of counter. In and out, in and out. He wasn't giving up, he wasn't giving up. He wasn't.

"Fuck, shit!" Steve cursed. "Shit. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_."

That was exactly how James found them three minutes later.

* * *

"I'm so sorry, Bucky. I just failed you over and over again. I'm just so sorry," Steve said, his face twisted in a frown of pain.

"Steve, just stop. It's not your fault. Honestly, it's nobody's fault but Hydra. I never thought that you had failed me; I didn't back in the past, and I don't think it now," James said firmly before his face softened and he added with a fond tone. "You cannot carry the weight of the world, Stevie."

When Tony managed to tear his eyes from James and turn to see Steve's reaction, the tears were already running down Steve's face, rapidly, and he seemed seconds away from a breakdown. His face was puffy, his teeth were biting his bottom lip, his hands kept fisting and relaxing... he was breaking down, right there, in front of Tony and in front of his best friend. There wasn't a single speck of his usual pride to be seen on his face as he choked up on his own tears.

"Please don't leave me," Steve begged, reaching desperately for Bucky's arm, grabbing and lightly shaking it, in a fucked up echo of Tony's desperation. "Please. I don't think there's fight enough in me to survive this."

"Don't do this, Stevie." It was Bucky's time to beg, and he did it. His own eyes were swimming in unshed tears as he struggled to remain composed.

"I'm sorry. I can't, I can't."

Tony closed his eyes, unable to bear another second of witnessing their pain without collapsing under the mountain of feeling weighing down his shoulders. Steve's and Bucky's friendship was one for the books — the type of love one cannot help but wish for even knowing it's ridiculous to expect it. They conquered war, fights — time itself. How unlikely for them to finally reach the end of the line in such a disgusting way.

* * *

Their lips met. Shouldn't have been painful — was. Tony was missing all of his carefully constructed finesse, built upon years and years of reinforcing his playboy persona, and instead went in with all teeth and all tongue, desperate for a taste, for more. And it hurt. Fuck, it hurt more than any kiss should have the right to hurt. James was lying on the bed, his breath accelerated even after a few seconds.

In response, Tony gripped harder. Gripped his hair with one hand and his hip with the other, going for pain and pleasure and perhaps trying to hurt him in the same way Tony hurt. Too much and yet, somehow, not enough. James was fragile in his hold, something that should've never been possible, but was. Their tastes mixed — it was intoxicating, maddening, intolerable.

With a tortured groan, Tony detangled himself from James. "Shit," he cursed, his voice nothing more than a broken whisper that still echoed around the silent room. "I—James, I-"

"Good to know I can still leave you wordless with a kiss," he joked, but it wasn't funny. Neither of them was laughing.

Tony thought of the previous times they'd touched in the past few months, of the times James had shivered only a little more than usual, of the way he breathed harder, puffs of air against Tony's face, of the tighter hold of limbs, with pleads of _faster_ , and _harder_ , and _more_ , and _God, right there_. He thought of how he hadn't wasted another minute thinking about it, of how he imagined it had been he who excited, who drove James even wilder than before.

"How could you?" Tony asked, even though he already knew the answer. He looked into those gray eyes. "How could you do this to me? I want you more than anything, James. I need you. We deserved more time — you deserve more time. I just don't-"

"I never took you dancing," James said, raising his hand — his bionic hand — to touch Tony's face. "How could I have never taken you for a dance, doll? I wanted to, you know? But there always seemed to have a thousand things I wanted to do with you… for you. Guess I just… just missed my shot."

That couldn't be right. There was no way they hadn't danced together at any point — it couldn't be. But Tony's mind came up short as he tried to remember ever dancing with the man under him, and that was just unacceptable. He had gone to hundreds of parties, and events, and places he never wanted to go again, and danced with disgusting, pretentious people who he never spoke more than words with… Tony had touched all those people, allowed them to touch him freely, danced to music he hated while sober, while drunk…

"No, that's unacceptable. No. No. Just… no. Get up, get up right now," Tony ordered, getting off the bed. "Fri, give me Sinatra."

 _I've Got You Under My Skin_ started to play softly in the room, and Tony smiled. A perfect choice. He grabbed James' hand, tugging him up.

"Tony, I," James began, looking down at his own body and wincing painfully. "That wasn't how I imagined-"

"I don't care, we're doing this. Right now. Get up!" Tony had to use some muscles to help James to get up from the bed, and he tripped as soon as his feet touched the floor, but it didn't matter. Tony held him up, moving his hand to touch his lower back and slide impossibly closer.

"My love, may I have this dance?" Tony asked — begged, his voice as serious as he had ever heard it.

"As if I could say no to a fella as pretty as you," James said, also sounding quite serious about his words. "Never could."

Sinatra was playing, they were in their bedroom, wearing some old clothes, and James was paler than a sheet of paper. However, they were dancing. Tony was leading, holding both of their weight upright to shift them to the sides, reverently touching James.

"This isn't so bad," James breathed, a small, intimate smile gracing his perfect lips. And it wasn't. Not bad at all.

"The best dance I've have had, no doubts," Tony agreed, tucking his head in the crook of the other's neck, breathing in that perfect lemon smell that clung to James despite all the sweat.

"You sweet talker," he teased, nuzzling Tony's hair. "One would think you were trying to take me home."

"Trying? Does that mean you're still unconvinced?" The words were muffled in his shoulder.

"Me?" James said, whispering in Tony's ear. "Baby… You can take me anywhere you like, baby."

They danced. Tony led, even as the music ended, even as James' step faltered, even as his arms protested against the effort, even as the timed passed. James followed, even as he shivered and broke a cold sweat, even as Tony held him too tightly, even as the music stopped, even as he felt the tears pooling on the shoulder of his shirt — silently and discreet.

They danced their first and their last dance on the same day. Together.

Perfect.

* * *

When he absentmindedly asked FRIDAY to show him what James was doing, it never once crossed his mind that he would be privy to some private moment between him and Steve. He had left the room only minutes ago — refusing to spend any more time apart from James than he absolutely had to — and not once had he thought they would be seated face-to-face on the huge bed, small smiles gracing their faces.

"That day when you stole an apple for my birthday and tried to pretend you bought it," Steve said, leaning closer to James and giving his knee a tiny shove. Tony wondered what exactly were they reminiscing.

"The day in the alley next to your building when you got in front of a punch for me then made me carry you up the stairs in recompensation," James said in return, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. "God, you've always been such a punk."

"Jerk," Steve snapped back, although he sounded more fond than anything else. "Rebecca's birthday, when you insisted on the party being at my place because I was sick again and you knew I'd get up from the bed and go to yours anyway otherwise."

"The drawing you made of me by the sun after whats-her-name dumped me for my neighbor." This time, when James spoke, his voice came out tinged with a deep ache, as though he was just now remembering that memory and how much it meant to him.

"I thought it was things we were grateful for, Buck?" Steve asked, puzzled. "That drawing was horrible."

"It's my favorite you've ever made," was the rebuttal. Serious, without any trace of humor in it.

Tony froze his movement, everything inside him screaming for him to shut down the video and stop being such a masochist. Shit, why would he stand there and force himself to watch as Steve and Bucky — even he could admit that was Bucky right there — going over their list of things to be grateful about each other? Their love for one another colored each of their words and Tony wanted nothing more than to scream at them to shut up.

Steve, however, clearly wasn't hearing Tony's inner thoughts, because when he spoke again, his voice went impossibly softer. "Everyday you made me tea and stood by my side even when there were a thousand more exciting things to do."

It was like a car crash Tony could see coming miles ahead of him and yet did nothing to prevent it. The way their expressions went from happy and nostalgic to identical looks of sadness and grieve.

"Everyday you pretended to want my help just to make me feel less of a useless piece of crap," James whispered, raising his flesh hand to Steve's face — almost as if he was remembering the old, skinny face which used to be there.

And right there, in Tony's bed, with no enemies to be seen, stripped to sweats and Bucky's old shirt, Captain America folded like a piece of paper, landing his forehead against his best friend's hand and brokenly admitting, "You were never a piece of crap, and most of the time I wasn't pretending either, Buck. I wanted your help — needed it. Some days the only thing keeping me together was knowing you'd come after work to stay with me."

The crash was not nearly as flashy as one could expect from two super-soldiers, and yet, somehow, when Bucky opened his mouth and whispered the other man's name in his softest voice, it turned out to be more devastating than even a genius could've predicted.

"Enough, Fri," he whispered, already turning his back.

Tony had had enough. He couldn't bear to hear anything else.

* * *

James' last day was spent in bed. Their bed, to be precise.

He asked Tony to take his arm off. He wanted to be buried with the rest of his family in Brooklyn, and the arm was just too powerful, too dangerous, to remain attached to his body, where anyone could steal it. Tony tried to argue that he could have it protected — no matter what it took — and even Steve surprisingly agreed, but James was nothing if not stubborn, so there they were.

Steve was leaning against the headboard, James leaning against his chest while he laid in the middle of his legs, while Tony worked on the shoulder, carefully taking the plates apart. It was symbolic, almost, to sit there, as they had so many times in the past, working on the bionic arm, only now with Steve sitting with them.

"I'm sorry you worked on it for so long, and I only had it for, like, a few months," James broke the silence, a tiny smile in his face as he stared at Tony.

"Shut up," he said, not managing a smile in return.

"I'm sorry," James said again, and Tony had had enough of it. He couldn't bear to hear another fucking person apologizing without losing his already fragile grasp on his sanity.

"Stop apologizing. Dammit, James, just shut up. You know working on this arm was… it was never a chore."

The unspoken words were there, _spending time with you was never a chore_ , but James seemed to hear them anyway because his smile got a little wider and he almost looked normal when he said.

"Oh, I know. If you weren't so damn hot I might have been creeped out by how much you didn't consider working on this a chore," he teased, lightly flexing the arm and winking.

"Don't do that!" Tony chided, although he couldn't hold the laugh in. "Stop messing with my work, Barnes."

"Stop groping me, then," he smirked.

"Never," Tony promised, the smile sliding off his face instantly as he went back to work.

He thought about all the times he touched James without that reverence, just taking his presence for granted as he reached over and caressed his hair or grabbed his arm or leaned against his chest... He knew all the curves and dips of his body, had spent hours on end mapping them with his tongue. And yet, at that moment, watching his hand in contrast to the prosthetic, he couldn't help but wish he had been more thorough, that he'd gripped just a little tighter, that he hadn't spent as many hours locked up in his lab, that he hadn't missed so much time doing shit that now seemed so irrelevant when compared to all the things he still wanted to live with James.

Suddenly, the arm he had been admiring was moving, holding his forearm strongly enough that Tony knew it would bruise. He leaned into it, hoping for the deepest bruise he could get.

"Hey, gonna drool on my arm, doll?" James asked casually, although his eyes shone with comprehension and he tightened his hold even further, granting Tony's silent request.

"Technically, it's my arm," he rebutted, going for a casual response while praying the others didn't comment on the higher pitch of his voice.

Something finally went his way because Steve was shifting his hold on James to look properly at his arm, asking instead, "What will you do with it?"

"Cut mine up and wear it," Tony informed, straight-faced, caressing the alloy tenderly with his left hand.

"Oi," James protested, although he still gripped Tony's right arm, quite certainly cutting his blood flow. "Not sure I'm cool with that."

"You're not sure?" Steve asked. "That's all you have to say abo- for the love of Christ, Buck, let go of Tony's arm, you are hurting him. Has he turned off some of your sensibility sensors?"

"Nah," James denied casually, while carefully releasing the pressure on Tony's arm, their eyes locked together. "Just leaving a goodbye present."

The blood came rushing back to the rest of his limb, and Tony had to contain the groan of pain that threatened to escape from his lips, fisting and relaxing his hand reflexively. His mouth — the traitor it was — curved in a smirk, though, matching the teasing look in front of him. God, it should be impossible for someone to be so goddamn perfect.

"Wait, what-," Steve began, confused before he looked down at the engineer's arm to see the dark bruise already visible there — the perfect shape of James' hand, printed on his flesh. Steve gaped, first looking as if he was about to protest against the pain his friend had obviously caused, but then, so fast one could almost miss it, his expression turned wistful, as though he was about to ask for one, too.

"You asshole," Tony turned back to James, speaking before Steve had the chance to embarrass himself. "Let me get back to work. You want this off or not?"

"Me? Sure. Brooklyn doesn't accept rich folks on its land," He joked. "Gotta go back the way I left it."

"A jerk?" Steve said, shaking his head. "That's not very nice. You are supposed to grow up, grow wiser."

"Oh, shut up, Stevie. You're old too, where's your wisdom?"

"What do you mean, I'm wise."

"Sooooo wise," Tony mocked, going back to work.

"Hump," Steve hummed, thinkingly. "I suppose my time in the ice cannot be counted for much when it comes to wisdom, so maybe I should be judged based on the years I've lived, you know, not frozen. I'm basically a teenager still."

"How do we shut him up?" James asked Tony, exasperated.

"I have a few ideas, wanna give it a go?" It wasn't untrue, either.

"Hey, you are a mean, mean little man," Steve said, looking at Tony with that fake innocent expression he used when making fun of someone.

"You're an old, old pain in my arse," he said back, rolling his eyes.

"You wanna go a few rounds?" Steve teased, the familiar words leaving his lips with ease.

"I might." Tony was smiling despite himself. Damn Steve and his inopportune humor; couldn't he see thatTony was busy trying to hate him?

"Put on the suit," Steve finished, winking.

Fuck. Tony laughed, throwing his head back and enjoying the memories running through his mind. God, he had missed the banter between them so much.

"You know, I have no idea what you're talking about," James said, confused.

"You see, Steve here has a tendency to be an idiot-"

And they sat there, speaking of the past and laughing together. It was good. More than good, it was perfect. A last moment of happiness. It lasted until James' lung stopped answering to his commands.

* * *

"Are you sure you don't-," Tony tried one more time, knowing the answer would still be the same, yet unable to witness James suffering more than necessary without doing anything about it.

"Yeah," he crocked, having to pull the air extra hard to speak the words, which, in turn, made Tony feel like an asshole for forcing the subject. "No medical equipment. What's the point?"

"Point? Buck, you'd be able to breath easier... and maybe you'd... maybe you would..." Steve allowed the words to die on his tongue, a grimace on his face. It wasn't difficult to imagine what he had been about to say; it would've been the same damn thing that echoed inside Tony's mind over and over again. Maybe it would buy him some time — even if only a few more hours.

But, naturally, they would never say it. James had chosen, and even if it killed them, they would respect his choice. If Tony requested quietly for FRIDAY to release for oxygen into the room... well, then no one had to know about it. Technically, it was not medical equipment, and Tony wanted every minute, every second he could get.

James was pale, and sweaty, and gasping for breaths, and shaking, and kind of delirious. Just the same, Tony couldn't keep his eyes off of him. He studied every tiny detail, doing something he rarely ever did: focusing all of his mind and attention on a single thing. He was committed to it — to the task he had proposed to himself. Tony would remember every single detail there was to remember about James for as long as he lived. Every single one.

"I had hoped for a more honorable death, to be honest," James said, keeping his eyes opened with some difficulty. "This is shit."

Yeah, poison was not a death Tony would wish on many people, and certainly not on James. He had to be in an enormous amount of pain, even if he hid it well, despite all his symptoms. Hydra's parting gift was as sick and fucked up as one could expect from an organization that had wiped the memory of a soldier to use him as a faceless assassin for seventy fucking years.

"Kiss me," he ordered, and Tony could tell that he was going for a strict tone.

He didn't say anything, even as the words burned inside his mouth. He wanted to say so much, to confess anything he had yet to confess, to yell in sorrow and to scream in frustration. It wasn't the time, though. Whatever he needed to say to James had already been said, and more than that, he knew the other understood all the rest that hadn't been mentioned. Some feelings passed between them wordlessly, yet no less potent for it.

So went in for that kiss. Savoring that taste, feeling James under him, moving together with him in perfect sync — they had perfected that game. It was chaste, soft. Very much like what Tony imagined fairytales first kisses were meant to feel like. It felt appropriate that it would be their last.

As he drew away, Tony thought about the shards in his chest which had once poisoned his bloodstream and almost caused his death. He thought about how he, too, had hidden his supposedly inevitable demise from Rhodey and Pepper, thinking it would be ridiculous to weight them with the knowledge when there was nothing to be done about it.

It was impossible not to draw parallels between their histories. They both chose to witter away in silence, watching as the life left their bodies — slowly, always so slow. Tony, in an impossible stroke of luck, had managed to survive the poison, which, for all reasons, should've killed him. James, on the other hand, wouldn't be so lucky. In fact, as the thoughts ran past Tony's mind, he could almost see the clock ticking away, closer and closer to midnight.

It was stupid, and ridiculous, and wrongly poetic, but Tony concluded that, without James, it would always be midnight.

"I don't wanna die," James confessed, closing his eyes as the tears finally ran down his face. "I'm not ready."

Tony didn't know what to say. The hand curled around James' ankle, as he sat back down beside his lover, his love, his partner. Steve seemed equally lost and pained, squeezing James middle in a poor attempt at comfort.

"Peggy told me, once, that no one is ever ready," Steve whispered, tears pooling in his eyes. He took a breath, trying to get the words out, "We just gotta be grateful for the good days."

"I-I am," James broke down in sobs. "But this-I just wanted..."

It was all too much. Tony's eyes burned in a way they had never before, as he clenched his teeth together and squeezed the hell out of James' ankle, hoping to whatever God was out there that he managed to hold back his own tears until... until after. Steve — fucking Captain America — was red-faced crying, whispering sweet nothings into James' ear while trying to calm him down, snot gathering in his upper lip as he refused to release his best friend even for a second. And James...

Fuck.

He was sobbing like a baby who was missing his mother — pitched and terrified. Tony dived to hug him, nesting his face on Steve's chest as James' did the same on his chest, gasping more and more for breaths of air. It was probably not the best position to place a person struggling for air... it didn't matter, though. Did it?

It was unbearable, impossible. Tony wanted the moment to stretch on forever and yet couldn't believe himself to be able to bear another single second of it.

Without James, there would be nothing. Just nothing.

He had waited his whole life to meet someone who would make him feel half of the way he felt for James, only to have it ripped away two years after he met him. Two years which now felt like two minutes.

"Breathe, Buck," Steve begged. "You have to breathe."

"Stevie, I promised I would be with you until the end of the line," James whispered, muffled by Tony's chest, but forceful, as if he had decided to say those words no matter what. "I tried to keep my promise, I did, but this is my end of the line — you're going to have to on without me, punk."

And Steve broke down. He kind of screamed in pain, kind of sobbed in desperation, the tears hot on Tony's neck.

"You'll always be my best fella, Buck," Steve promised, in between sobs.

Tony would not cry. He would not break down when James needed him. He would have all the rest of his life to be miserable. He would save it. He would.

James grip on Tony's body was going lax as the strength left his body — the poison killing him all too fast now. The lack of hold made him slip down a little, and Tony had no kneel in between James' legs to keep himself from falling into his lap. Not that he didn't want to. Desperately.

Facing them both, messy and ugly and crying and beautiful and broken down... It made Tony feel vulnerable in all sorts of unexpected ways, and he almost curled down to bed for mercy.

A gasp for breath. "Tony," Another gasp for breath. "I-I love you. You were my sunlight after seventy years of ice."

"You were my ice after too many years of desert," Tony confessed, surprised he still had the ability of speech functioning. It didn't feel like it would work — too tight, too little air, too much everything else.

James smiled (his very last), gorgeous and precious, even with his runny nose and blotched face, right before he forgot how to breathe, pulling forward to catch oxygen that wasn't nearly enough.

"Buck! Breathe!"

"James, come on. With me," Tony tried to regulate his breaths, although his level of success left much to be desired. It was something. The best he could've done while holding back the dam of darkness nearly overwhelming his senses.

They breathed. Too shallow, too sparse.

Steve breathed with them.

One more.

Two.

Three.

Tony breathed one more time in sync with James, pulling in the air as deeply as he dared, watching as the man in front of him struggled to get the air inside his lungs, shaking and trembling with the effort. They exhaled together, although Tony could see he was the only one who had absorbed any of that precious oxygen, and when he went for another deep inhale, he was the only one who did so.

James closed his eyes, almost like going to sleep.

That was it; his final comeuppance.

"No, no, no, no, no," Tony chanted, shaking James' arm, willing the present to change according to his will.

But there was no pulse. No pulse. Nothing.

"Shit, Buck. Buck. Buck, don't do this!"

He checked. Checked again. Once more, this time on the neck, searching for anything. Even a whisper of a beat. In the corner of his eyes, he could see Steve doing the same thing, desperately looking for something they both knew wasn't there.

Tony's body collapsed on top of James, sagging with grief. And finally, he screamed. Clutching the sides of James body, Tony screamed at the top of his lungs.

Some part of Tony's brain noticed that he wasn't screaming alone. He could hardly hear it over the sound of his blood rushing to his head, though.

James was dead, and Tony howled.

Midnight.


	2. Chapter 2

James,

I don't know why I'm writing this letter. I can't remember the last time I picked up a pen and paper to actually write something.

This is a mistake.

I know it's a mistake because I'm sober, and weirdly enough, almost all of my worst mistakes I made while sober. But you're not here anymore. You haven't been here for far too long. A year, eight months, and thirteen days, to be precise. Far too long to be without you, and not nearly enough time to make the wound any smaller or less painful.

I haven't healed, I haven't moved on.

I haven't forgotten.

Fuck that shit.

I'm still here, though, and that has to count for something, right? Honestly, I thought I would give up after maybe a few days. Losing you... I don't know what to say, there's just... There aren't any words sufficiently strong, or painful, or particular enough to express how I feel, how I felt. Maybe that's just how it is.

You know, they say that when women give birth, for a moment there, as their child is about to come out, they feel like they're going to die. Like they don't have enough strength to keep going, that they won't make it — literally like they're going to die within the next breath — and perhaps that's how I felt for weeks, and months: like any breath I was taking might be my last.

But they never were.

I drank too much, I slept perhaps a total of sixteen hours in the first month, I stood at the window looking at the outside world, trying to move, trying to force myself to do anything, but the hours just kept passing me by.

I don't know what to say, it all felt very irrelevant after you.

I would look at food and think about your favorite ice cream, or how you used to use your throwing knives to cut up apples, or how you drank milk from the bottle no matter how many glasses were available. I couldn't look at guns, or armory, or any military equipment whatsoever. I couldn't be at high places because you loved them, I couldn't wear anything green 'cuz it was your favorite color.

James, I just couldn't breathe.

We lived together for so long, seeing each other all the time, every day. Fuck, there was not a single part of my routine that you hadn't completely taken over. It's unfair, really, how much space you had taken without me ever realizing. I couldn't sleep in my own bed, or watch my own television, or do anything.

I remember once you told me that you would ruin me. You said it as a warning at the time. I believed you. I thought that you might, indeed, ruin me, but in other ways, which now sound so ridiculous compared to what truly happened.

You are gone. You're dead.

 _You fucking died._

I know this might sound so unfair, and egotistic, but I always thought that you, the super soldier... that I would get to die first. Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined being the one who lost someone, least of all losing you. It shouldn't have been possible.

And you know, it wasn't just unfair with me. You left Steve behind, too. I don't think he has forgiven you for that, to be honest.

I'm pretty sure he never will.

Sometimes, I'll have FRIDAY show me the camera from the gym, and Steve will be hanging a new punching bag, desperately hitting it, a line of wrecked ones sitting on the floor already. And he won't stop — not for hours. Until there aren't any bags left; until there's nothing to hit anymore. Then he'll just get really angry. I can hear the screams from my workshop on the bad days. Echoing around the walls — like a lost puppy calling for its missing mother and knowing it doesn't stand a chance on its own.

Steve lives here now. It sort of happened. After the funeral he came here, going straight for our bed, and dropping in the middle, like a sack of potatoes, exhausted and burned out. He wanted to be near all the things you had ever touched or owned, all the time. He wore your clothes, and used your body lotion, and read your books. It felt so surreal. I didn't even know what to say or how to respond, at first. So I just carried on. I sat at the edge of the bed and stared at the walls, speaking of all the moments you and I had together.

Someone had to know them but me, James. I couldn't stand being the only person who knew of the way you smiled around your toothbrush when I had your favorite toothpaste around, or the day you threw your mug at my head during a panic attack, then spent the next three days gluing it all together so that you could still drink from it because it was the one with the best handle.

What if I died next? What if I forgot? What if those moments were lost inside my brain, left scattered up here, with no one else to remember them fondly?

No, I couldn't risk it. Someone had to know them, and Steve was already there, so why not? I spoke, and he listened. I don't think he spoke a single word for the first two weeks. Not a single one, but he listened. I could tell he was listening to all the stories, 'cuz every once in a while his mouth would curl up, almost against his will, when I mentioned a weird quirk of yours.

We've been better these days. Somehow. Some version of better, I guess.

Natasha is the one handling the Avengers affairs now because Steve pretty much left, as well. He still goes on some missions, when the team asks for him, but it's getting less and less frequent now, and I think he wants to retire, too. Without you around, he looks his age for the first time.

Weirdly enough, we still haven't killed each other.

I know you wanted me to take care of him, James [thanks for that job, by the way, asshole], so that's what I'm trying to do, even though God knows that old man does not make it easy for me. He does talk about you a lot — which is nice.

Anyway.

I want to say that I'm sorry. I don't know if you're watching — I mean, I never believed in the afterlife deal, but then Thor happened, and space, and aliens, and galaxies, and powers way outside the world I thought I understood with math and numbers. So I don't know, maybe you _are_ watching all this shit show, frowning at me for being such a mess. I hope you are. I hope you see how much you are loved and missed, James.

You deserve all this and more.

You do.

So, if you are watching, if you see me, us, then I hope you've seen Peter. I don't know what I'm doing with him ninety percent of the time. In fact, I mostly try to steer him in the opposite direction of my personal brand of chaos, with different levels of success. He's a good kid. A good person, even. Much better than the rest of us, that's for sure. He wants to do right by others and isn't afraid of getting his hands dirty in the process, which is more than most humans can claim, I'm afraid.

And I want to do right by him.

Yet, still, I lay awake most nights, wondering if I made a huge mistake by bringing him into this madness, giving him better weapons with which to hurt others and, mostly, himself. And you're not here to smack me around and tell me I'm being an idiot.

You're not here, and I never signed up to be a dad.

I never got a chance to save you, James. Please help me get a chance with this kid, alright?

Please. Just… help me.

I'm a mess on my own, and he deserves so much better. I can't be anyone's role model — you know that. But he needs help with this whole super-hero thing, and sometimes when he talks back at me, giving me a whole lot of sass, he reminds me of you, of what you could've been if the world wasn't such a mess, and we had done a better job at keeping you safe.

So, yeah, that's it. If Thor's right and Valhalla is a thing, then protect this kid, will you?

Goodbye,

you idiot.

Ps: I love you. I still do. I always will. Fuck you.

I'm so sorry I never said it earlier.

* * *

 **Author's Note: Hello. I thought I was done with this universe. It turns out I'm not. Maybe seeing Endgame left me traumatized about endings. Who knows. Maybe we'll be seeing more of this in the future.**


End file.
